


Decompression

by Beginte



Series: Work and Play [7]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond knows how to decompress his Quartermaster, Established Relationship, Feels, Fluff, M/M, Q's backstory, Q's promising career in espionage, headcanons galore, reminiscing about the old M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 11:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6801631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You’re off the bloody clock,” Bond growls kindly into Q’s neck and nips at the skin when Q paws for the mobile.</i>
</p><p>  <i>“Might be important,” Q says, because he’s a raging workaholic (Bond is not going to throw stones in the glass house of his own work issues), and he scrolls through the message.</i></p><p>  <i> Bond can feel him tense as he types back his reply, and he noses at Q's neck before brushing a caring kiss into the skin. Q puffs out a tired sigh, although he relaxes under Bond’s ministrations, which serves as an encouragement, and Bond gladly continues.</i></p><p>  <i> “I’ve got to spend tomorrow morning with Mallory, discussing security upgrade options for his personal and work computers,” Q at last says gloomily, dropping the phone back onto the table.</i></p><p>-</p><p>In which there's lasagne, and Q tells Bond how he first met M.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decompression

**Author's Note:**

> Shout-out to the lovely [Castillon02](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02) for cheering me on :D

* * *

Contrary to what one may imagine, Bond is a very skilled cook. And he enjoys it. He enjoys fine food, and he also enjoys making it himself, when he’s got the time (and sufficient use of both hands). He likes the nearly therapeutic rhythm of it, the simplicity of an outcome and the room for improvisation, all of it devoid of any risks. He likes to work on a dish, adding a pinch of spice or an unexpected ingredient on a whim and instinctively knowing just how to make things good.

And he especially enjoys cooking for two.

He _likes_ cooking dinner for himself and Q. When he’s home and grounded between missions he likes to haunt MI6, lounge in Q-Branch and startle minions and pester Q and occasionally get dragged into the supplies cupboard for a lovely shag by his riled-up Quartermaster, but he also enjoys being home and cooking as he waits for Q to return from work. Because home is Q’s flat, _their flat_ , and has been for a comfortable while now. He’s all moved in (it occurred in increments) and most of the time doesn’t even ponder the fact. It all came naturally to both of them, and they’re happy with it.

(Personally, every once in a while, Bond has moments when the pleasant reality hits him, and he’s stupid with it, with being so ludicrously in love with his smart, waspish Quartermaster, but as long as nobody knows about how stupidly happy he gets about it every now and then, it’s alright.)

He particularly enjoys making all sorts of gourmet comfort food: dishes that are simple enough, as he no longer needs to go out of his way to impress the man he loves, but high quality, pleasing, with plenty of thought put into it. Q always smiles when he thanks him, glowing a little bit, as if warmed by the food (unsurprising, as often enough it’s the only solid hot meal he’s had all day), and always lets Bond know how much he likes it. It _may_ make Bond glow a little bit, too. But again, so long as no one but Q knows, it’s alright.

Today, he makes one of Q’s favourites, a lasagne that takes five hours and change to prepare. He figures it’s a smart choice, since Q seemed to be having a bit of a rough day when Bond popped by Q-Branch to visit him around noon and promptly got thrown out for accidentally exploding a prototype. His line of defence that the prototype was _designed_ to explode, and therefore no unwarranted outcome had happened, was not well received, and Q permitted R to evict Bond from the Q-Branch premises for the day. So Bond figures a favourite food will be a good strategy after the explosion mishap (not his fault, really, no matter what R says, the sneaky rat) and what seemed to be a highly botched-up mission on 002′s end.

Q comes home at 7:13 pm, when the lasagne has been sitting kept warm in the oven for 45 minutes now, and Bond has devoured all three bananas in the kitchen bowl. Q’s day must have been very shite if even Bond’s calculations of when to expect him home (002 botching considered) are off by this much.

Bond can hear him toe his shoes off in the hall and fumble out of that horrid anorak of his, and just by the sounds he can tell Q is tired. Then, his brilliant engineer stumbles into the living room and flings himself at the sofa with a grunt of exhaustion, the messenger bag holding his laptop still slung over his shoulder. Bond leans in the entrance to the kitchen and smiles, looking at the tangle of limbs, hair, and rumpled cardigan on the sofa.

“I take it 002 continued to perform admirably?” he says, and Q releases a lengthy groan in response.

“I hate that man. I _hate him_. I hate him even more than I hate you!” Q exclaims, making a gesture with his hand, and Bond chuckles, ducking back into the kitchen to heat up the lasagne, covering it in foil to prevent moisture from escaping in the process.

002 is new - he’s the latest and currently the youngest among the 00 agents, and he’s a smug, pretentious, irritating prick. He’s also an idiot, getting into conflicts with Q, as he apparently can’t comprehend that, if nothing else, it’s a bad idea to fuck with people who handle your life and weapons. Bond and Alec Trevelyan have a quiet bet going on how soon 002 will get himself killed in action.

Bond may occasionally go against Q’s directions, but he does it for reasons of instinct and mission goals, not out of spite or need to show off.

On the sofa, Q sniffs at the air as the oven pings.

“Mmmm.”

“I may have made lasagne,” Bond lets on, standing in the entrance again, and he smiles at the way Q perks up at the name of his favourite dish.

“Don’t toy with a man’s emotions, James,” Q warns weakly. “Have you, or have you not?”

“I have.”

“Ooooh...” Q clambers off the sofa and moves to the table, considerably livened up.

Amused (but also gratified by the enthusiasm, because Bond has never claimed to not be vain), Bond brings the lasagne to the table, and Q makes a few more mildly pornographic noises.

“Oh, lovely,” Q hums delightedly once they each have their respective half on their plates and Bond is pouring the wine. “Mmmm... great in the bedroom _and_ in the kitchen - I am a lucky, lucky man,” Q sends him a playful smile, and Bond laughs a little, happy to see much of the weariness and stress drained out of Q. The flattery is certainly appreciated as well.

They tuck in, and Bond is pleased to ascertain he’s managed a very excellent lasagne. Q seems to agree, if the happy noises and (only slightly exaggeratedly) blissful face are anything to go by.

“Oh, I love you,” Q says, heartfelt and overwhelming, though he seems to be looking at the lasagne more than at Bond, which doesn’t exactly stroke Bond’s ego _quite_ the right way. Still, he’s the one who made the damn lasagne in the first place, so he’ll take it.

They eat, Q complaining about 002 and the pricks from budgeting, but there’s no bone-deep weariness in him anymore, only the regular sort of tiredness after a busy day mixed in with snark and disgruntlement at others. He sourly mentions Bond’s explosion mishap, but Bond tips his head to the side, smiles invitingly, and slides his foot against Q’s under the table, and this seems to placate his Quartermaster enough for the moment. Though not without Q informing him he knows _exactly_ what Bond is doing here. Bond refrains from fluttering his eyelashes for the complete effect.

(Sex always placates Q just fine, and Bond definitely has plans to decompress and placate Q later tonight.)

Once they’ve eaten, they leave the dishes in the sink and migrate to the sofa for a bit of idle conversation and lazy kissing. They don’t talk about anything in particular, and Bond likes the sense of easiness it evokes. Q purrs some more praises to Bond’s lasagne, Bond complains about being told to correct his after action report (he does not find Q sympathetic), and they idly talk about tech and something Bond had read this morning.

The evening trickles placidly, filled with more and more kisses. Bond starts pressing them into Q’s delectably shapely jaw, tucks a few just under his ear, silky strands of hair tickling Bond’s nose. Q smiles at him, lazy, well-fed and considerably relaxed, and Bond pulls back a little to look at him. Bond always thinks him beautiful (and quite often he thinks him so unbearably gorgeous he has to forcibly tamp down the incoherent noises clawing at his throat), but this here is a soft kind of beauty, mellowed with comfort of the moment and of the fact they’ve had moments like this before and will have them again.

It’s a nice thought, and Bond tells Q he’s beautiful, the words dusting a charming blush over the bridge of Q’s nose, and Q kisses him, quite likely to shut him up. Q knows very well he’s attractive, but every now and then Bond manages to throw him by telling him that, and it feels nice to be able to get back at Q for managing to throw _him_ when he tells Bond he finds him beautiful.

They talk and kiss a bit more. Bond is dropping kisses along Q’s neck now, and Q is beginning to untuck Bond’s shirt from his trousers, those skilled fingers skimming Bond’s warm skin underneath, and Bond likes how there’s nothing immediately sexual about this moment. It may lead to sex soon, or it may just linger and remain idle. There are no expectations, only possibilities. It’s nice.

But he nevertheless does _not_ appreciate the interruption when Q’s mobile trills and vibrates very noisily on the coffee table - a single alert for a text message.

“You’re off the bloody clock,” Bond growls kindly into Q’s neck and nips at the skin when Q paws for the mobile.

“Might be important,” Q says, because he’s a raging workaholic (Bond is not going to throw stones in the glass house of his own work issues), and he scrolls through the message.

Bond can feel him tense as he types back his reply, and he noses at Q's neck before brushing a caring kiss into the skin. Q puffs out a tired sigh, although he relaxes under Bond’s ministrations, which serves as an encouragement, and Bond gladly continues.

“I’ve got to spend tomorrow morning with Mallory, discussing security upgrade options for his personal and work computers,” Q at last says gloomily, dropping the phone back onto the table.

Bond hums gently into his neck and presses another soft, small kiss to the warm skin before nosing affectionately for a moment.

“Why do I sense that’s not a happy prospect?”

“Because it isn’t,” the amount of sulk is high in Q’s voice. Another sigh, and a bit of the lost tension returns, prompting Bond to pull away and look at Q attentively. Green eyes dart to him and then back into some nondescript space, yet another small sigh dipping the corners of Q’s mouth downward. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against Mallory, he’s a nice man and a decent boss, but he just doesn’t like it - discussing security for his equipment. He just doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like having to make a decision between too many options, he gets annoyed, so I’m not fond of the whole thing either.”

Bond hums a monosyllable of understanding. Q lingers in silence a bit more. The lovely green eyes are a bit tired and swirling with a glimpse of melancholy and distant, faraway grief echoing from time past as they land on the porcelain bulldog tucked in between books and trinkets on one of the shelves. Bond honestly isn’t sure which one of them had placed it there.

“ _She_ liked it, you know,” Q’s voice is damp with sadness - but it’s a reconciled sadness. No anger or denial or violent, freshly bleeding grief. And he’s not talking about the bulldog. “She liked discussing the new ways of security, she liked talking about the biometrics, the pros and cons of everything, and she always listened, actually listened. She liked it. She liked... talking to me.”

The statement is simple and almost woundingly sincere, and Bond sits perfectly still, ensconced by Q’s side but waiting, looking at him - at the elegant profile, the sweep of rich, tangled hair, the pondering eyes, the long, soft eyelashes, the wide, expressive mouth now very gently unhappy.

“She liked _me_ , actually,” Q adds, almost flippantly, an awkward afterthought, and Bond always knew that Q had been another of M’s favoured orphan recruits (stolen out of MI5), but in first his own grief and then his own recovery he’d never fully, cognitively considered that Q must have been hurting just as acutely, and that his relationship with M had been unique on its own.

They’d talked about her a few times, but Bond had never really heard Q’s actual story with M.

“I think she did,” he affirms now - he knows she did. Q is just the sort of snarky, smart-mouthed person she would enjoy having around.

“I liked her, too,” Q muses, and then a brief smile twitches on his lips. “Discussing tech is how I met her, actually. Or, rather, how she met me.”

Bond shuffles that one inch closer, letting his interest show on his face and spark in his eyes, and Q looks at him, that brief smile flashing again before he leans in for a small kiss. It comes naturally, meaninglessly - a small thing of affection simply because they’re in love and together. Bond likes those small kisses as much as the heated, passionate, deep ones shared while making love, and the long, slow, simmering ones that stir love and desire in a lazy, luxurious coil. They’re just as important.

“So how did M snatch her future Quartermaster out of the clutches of the horrible terrible MI5?” Bond asks, just a touch playful, just enough to balance the wistful sadness in Q’s eyes with a spark that lights up in response.

He pushes up the sleeve of Q’s t-shirt and traces the intricate patterns of Q’s beautiful tattoo before settling on the fragment showing a crow’s footprint - a memento of Q’s hacker days under the nickname ‘Crow’.

“Does it have anything to do with this?” he asks.

“A little bit,” says Q.

Bond knows the general story - that Q had been caught by the MI5 at the ridiculous age of 21 because of his extremely skilled yet daring hacking, and that he’d been offered a deal to work for them rather than go to prison, and that at 22 he got snatched up by MI6, hand-picked by M herself... but he doesn’t know how _exactly_ all of that happened.

Now, he snuggles closer with Q, content in the safety of their home and lingering in a shared moment of surprisingly, gently pleasant reminiscing. And Q smiles at him and tells him the story.

* * *

_Five years, as it turned out, was a long time. Especially when four years and eighteen days of said five years still loomed ahead, bringing visions of nine-to-five workdays and frankly just_ evil _restrictions on his digital freedom._

_(It was technically his own fault, but that didn’t make him feel any better, so he skipped over that inconvenient detail, especially when he’s not had his second dose of Earl Grey yet.)_

_Five years, that was the deal. He’ll work off five years in the employ of MI5 and then he’ll be released back into his natural habitat._ _Out of uni at 19 (with a masters in engineering and 3 other degrees) he’d been continuing his hacking ways for about two years. He’d been swooping through MI5′s servers (and plenty other official and less-official systems brimming enticingly with data), gradually lowering his level of sophistication to see at which point he’d get caught, until, well,_ he got caught _. They’d offered him a deal to work for them for 5 years, the alternative being to go live at Her Majesty’s pleasure, and much as he was fond of Her Majesty, he’d rather not._

 _Truth be told, it wasn’t so bad. He knew that part of him had wanted to get caught, to get noticed and recruited, which he had. Only, he’d hoped for a bit more of a challenge, a bit more interesting things to do. They did put him on the more complex cases, but his everyday chores were of the slightly more mundane variety._ _That being said, there wasn’t much he could do right now, so he simply turned up every day and did his work, and spent most of his free time in his flat, working on pet projects on a laptop the MI5 didn’t know he owned._

_He was used to being alone in his section of the offices every now and then on a slow day, so it wasn’t unusual to find the place deserted when he came back from the kitchen, a fresh mug of tea steaming in his hand. What was unusual, however, was the unfamiliar, elder woman sitting in one of the glass-walled conference rooms._

_She turned, looking at him, blinking as if surprised a little to see anyone, and something about her eyes made him stop dead in his tracks, unsure. She was dressed with businesslike severity, her short white hair styled neatly, and there was something cold and magnificent about her that dwarfed the entire room._

_“Erm... hello,” he said, because he felt like he had to do_ something _under her hawk-like gaze, and she blinked, one thin eyebrow giving the barest twitch._

_“Hello,” she replied, perfectly polite and yet not for one minute less commanding for it. If anything, she only grew larger - which was absurd, because she was tiny, and he only just noticed it now, somehow._

_“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asked, because she didn’t have anything to drink, sitting here alone, and the impulse in him was honest, maybe even a little warm. “I’ve still got some water in the kettle, it won’t take long to get it to boil again.”_

_“Yes, please, that would be lovely,” there was the slightest hint of a smile on her lips, and it somehow made her inviting._

_He made her a good Earl Grey and brought it to her, only to find her out of the room and by his desk - no surprise, as his was the only computer not currently dormant or off altogether._

_“Here you go.”_

_“Thank you,” she again seemed mildly surprised, and he nodded slightly before simply sitting at his desk and getting ready to work on his code again._

_“What are you working on?” she asked, and her tone was one of genuine interest, not idle, inattentive politeness._

_He looked at her, assessing for a split second. She had been seated in the conference room (not to mention cleared by the many levels of security required to be let onto this floor), and her general air told him she was someone important within either the secret service or the political section related immediately to it. So, after this brief second of scrutiny, he started explaining._

_He told her about the enemy firewall he was working to take apart, and he explained why it was less difficult to tackle than the one currently guarding the MI5 network, but also couldn’t help himself from mentioning that the MI5 firewall could stand a few not-so-minor tweaks as well._

_She was interested in the tactic he was employing, and she listened with actual, genuine interest, one not prompted by the urgency of an immediate operation or by the hope to scavenge his trade secrets. She was just interested. She listened and wasn’t reluctant to ask questions, nor was she reluctant to ask for a clearer explanation or to wave a hand and tell him she wasn’t going to understand this particular detail or another anyway._

_About fifteen minutes later or so, a few people walked in, his boss among them, interrupting._

_“Ah, M. Dreadfully sorry, things got slightly out of hand, I’m_ ever _so sorry,” his boss said. “Please, this way.”_

_She didn’t look impressed (or even remotely buying the apology as sincere)._

_“Oh, I’d say I spent a very worthwhile and entertaining fifteen minutes just now. Let’s see if the following half hour will be just as worth the bother,” she said a little sourly, and then turned to him. “Thank you for the tea,” she said._

_And with that, she was gone, following his boss and three other people out into a conference room._

_And he sat there, suddenly aware he’d been entertaining M,_ the head of bloody MI6 _for fifteen minutes._

* * *

Bond is chuckling by the time Q finishes his story, eyes glinting merrily, because of course, _of course_ Q would meet M this way - over tea and a bit of light hacking and with no idea who she was, charming the tough old bitch with just one smile and that shining brain of his.

“And a cup of Earl Grey,” Q adds imperiously when Bond tells him that.

“And a cup of Earl Grey,” Bond agrees. “What happened next, then?”

“Well, next I had a rather peculiar week during which my boss was giving me an increasingly heavy glare, and at the end of it I was approached by someone M had sent out, with an offer. They offered me a job at MI6, with a clean slate, no record whatsoever, and a brand new identity if I wanted to. I said yes, of course, and two weeks later I got transferred and officially killed - car crash, very nasty, apparently - and was given a new identity.”

“And nothing to stop you from leaving whenever you felt like it,” Bond notices, and the corners of Q’s mouth twitch in a lightly amused smile.

“Nothing whatsoever. So I stayed. I got a much better job than back at Five, and less than two years later I was made R. And then, well, you know the rest,” he smiles again, a complex emotion flashing across his face.

Bond understands all too well. They had met under less than ideal circumstances which culminated in a loss that touched them both rather profoundly, but they are both more than glad to have crossed paths. And the sparkling amusement of their first meeting still lingers between them, a definitely happy memory. Bond still smiles and shakes his head when he remembers Q’s snarky remarks and the delicious verbal sparring match the entire conversation had been.

Q is thoughtful, eyes far away for a moment.

“Orphans make the best recruits,” he muses lightly, echoing M’s little saying, and Bond nods.

“It certainly seems that way.”

He knows Q’s story there as well. Q had told him some time ago, calling himself an orphan ‘in the truly Dickensian sense of the word’, apparently dropped off anonymously at a group home’s doorstep as an infant, like in some bloody 19th century novel. Bond knows that Q never was adopted, and he cannot fathom how anyone could not want someone like Q - but no, he _can_ fathom it. He can so very easily fathom it: Q, so smart, so blindingly brilliant, and with that wicked streak of danger already under his skin. People don’t like a child to be so much cleverer and more intelligent than them. And they especially don’t like the child to be aware of it.

Well. _He_ has Q now. And he counts himself exceptionally lucky that Q wants to have him in return. He tightens his arms around Q avariciously.

Q glances at him and smiles.

“Q is who I am,” he says, easy and simple. “It’s me. I like it.”

“Oh, I _definitely_ like it,” Bond purrs and pulls Q close, kissing the small laugh bubbling up on his sweet dark lips.

They kiss for a while, and talk about other things, mention M once or twice - it feels nice to be able to remember her with someone, and without pain. They go to bed eventually, and Bond delectably follows through with his plan to decompress Q with sex, and he’s very thorough about it, much to Q’s loudly moaned and keened enjoyment. He smugly thinks the neighbours might actually complain this time.

In the morning, he coaxes Q into round two by attacking every single sensitive spot on Q’s body until Q is writhing in the sheets and snapping at Bond to ‘ _fucking fuck me already’,_ and well, what sort of a 00 agent would he be if he didn’t obey his Quartermaster.

(Q leaves twenty minutes late, ruffled, visibly pleased, and with a prominent lovebite sucked into his lovely neck. His mood is also definitely improved. Bond stays smugly sprawled in bed and plans to pop by MI6 around lunchtime and see if his Quartermaster will need decompressing again.)

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed, I rather like how this turned out :)


End file.
